


“You’re doing it wrong!” (Waid-Ross “Kingdom Come” verse)

by DangerouslyCheesy



Category: Superman (Comics), Wonder Woman (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 20:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerouslyCheesy/pseuds/DangerouslyCheesy
Summary: Clark teaches his family some valuable lessons; some intentional, others not as much.





	“You’re doing it wrong!” (Waid-Ross “Kingdom Come” verse)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. As the title indicates, this story takes place in the Waid-Ross “Kingdom Come” verse, some years after the events of that book. Two important points of difference (Earth 22A?): Smallville, KS was somehow not wiped off the map by the death of Captain Atom; also, here Superman is still vulnerable to Kryptonite.  
> 2\. This is quite short, but I sort of broke it up into mini-chapters, anyway. It is my prerogative to be weird, and what’s more, to write weirdly.  
> 3\. I’m thinking of creating a cartoon character known as the “dis-clam”. He could sit at the beginning of my stories and spew insults. Also, he would disclaim stuff, so I wouldn’t get sued. Too bad I can’t draw.

_All my life I have tried to set an example.  I’ve lived according to my beliefs, and hoped that would be enough, that others would come to see the worth of simple values like Ma and Pa taught me._  

_I never thought I would end up like this._

Clark was lying on the kitchen floor, not moving.  His right hand, the one not clutching at his chest, was resting on Ma Kent’s floor.  It was simple hardwood flooring; oak that dated back five generations, to a time when oaks were thick as grass in these parts.  Clark’s ancestors—or at least the people he’d come to think of as his ancestors—had not spent any money whatsoever for their solid oak floors.  They had simply invited over some of the extended family, set out with some cross-cut saws, and harvested what they needed.  It was possible to live off the land, in those days.  Things weren’t so crowded.  Or irradiated, for that matter.

Kal-El of Krypton had been still been traveling, deep in space, when those long-dead Kents had built this house on Earth.  Long before that, and long afterwards.  Time dilation is a funny thing.  Jor-El’s avatar, up in the Fortress, had made sure that Kal-El understood the concept backwards and forwards.  He could do the calculations in his head without really trying.

All things considered, though, Clark Kent liked woodworking better.

With his left hand, Clark lifted up the flap of his shirt.  The buttons were torn down the front, gone the way of so many of his shirts over the years.  He was not wearing the insignia of the House of El underneath, today.  This was supposed to be a quiet day at home, his first in a very long time.  

Now, this.

He was lying in the shadow of the kitchen island, so the soft green glow was plainly visible, even in daytime.  It spread like a stain across his entire chest, reaching down almost to his navel and all the way up his neck.  It stopped, currently, just below his jawline.  Thank heaven for small favors.  At least he could cover up the sight of it with his shirt, and not have it pulsating in his peripheral vision.  He sighed.  

The sigh turned into a low groan of distress, which was damaging to his ego.  There were people who said he never felt any pain in his life: ignoramuses.  He knew pain, knew it like family, and it took quite a lot to make Superman groan in discomfort.

* * *

Footsteps approached; too light for an adult. 

_So.  We play this out, then._

Clark’s head lolled over loosely on his neck, allowing him—just barely—to fix his gaze on the corner where the hallway let out into the kitchen.

Bright blue eyes and an unruly mop of dark hair peeked halfway around the corner.  

“Jon,” gasped Clark, “not too close, now.”  He paused, and made his voice relax a bit.  He didn’t want to scare the boy to death.  “Listen, son: do you know what this,” he moved his shirt, gesturing to his own dimly glowing skin, “means?”

The three-year-old nodded, eyes wider than ever.  “Kip-tonite,” he whispered.

Clark felt a smile force itself onto his face at the mispronunciation, but he couldn’t afford to laugh, not under the circumstances.  “That’s right, Jon, Kryptonite.  Do you know what to do?”

Again, the child nodded.  They had pounded it into him since before he could understand any part of what they said.  “Special suit.”

In the midst of everything, Clark felt a surge of pride.  “That’s right, buddy: you need to put on your special suit.  Then come back and help Daddy.  Okay?”

One more nod, and then a stomping run back down the hallway and up the stairs.  The child was not very large, not yet, but he sure could make a racket.  Clark heard a door slam so hard it probably cracked, and the sound of drawers being ripped out of a dresser.  He winced.  His son was taking this seriously, which was a good thing, but in his haste Jon was forgetting where they kept the special, lead-lined suit that Clark had built for him.  Instead of stopping to think, it sounded like he was just looking—violently—in every place he encountered.

“Damn you, Bruce.  What did I do to you, that you think I deserve this?”

* * *

 

Batman sat in darkness.  Eyes that had witnessed horror and depravity without ever turning away, perhaps for too many years, now watched Superman's shallow breathing.  Batman observed everything, missing no detail: the cheery summer morning; the warmth of the Kent farmhouse, eternally unchanging, where he himself had taken refuge more than once.  He saw these things on his screen, catalogued, and dismissed them without further thought.  He observed his former colleague, with whom he’d fought and bled, sprawled on the floor.  Superman was no longer moving.  Even through the video feed, the gently pulsing green glow was impossible to miss.  Batman narrowed his eyes: assessing, clinical, detached.  Compassion had no place in this arena.  He told himself that Superman had always known this, and understood it to be true.

Kent’s son fled the kitchen.  Batman’s eyes darted to the chrono-stamp, and he noted the time.

His feed included audio, and now it crackled to life.  Kent, asking the kind of question that made the universe laugh in your face.

Instead of answering, Bruce Wayne looked down at the infant girl in his arms.  He was surprised to find her awake, staring at him.  There was potential for stealth, with this one.  Given she was brought up with the proper training, of course.

“Your daughter has her mother’s eyes, Kal-El,” he said quietly.

* * *

 

In the kitchen, Clark gritted his teeth.  “I will make you pay for this,” he growled, “I swear it.”

The banging upstairs continued, sounding like it was coming from the master bedroom, now.  Jon was not one to ask for help, not unless he had exhausted all other options.  Independence, from his mother at least as much as from Clark, and it was a good thing.  Still, Clark could envision the disaster zone the boy was creating with all the clothing in their closets.  He shut his eyes, then jerked them back open.  The urge to quit fighting and just rest was almost overpowering.  Superman had been busy, these last few weeks.  Superman had been busy these last few _years_.  Long work, much exertion, little (if any) sleep.  

Today had been his first day off in a very long time.  A chance to stop moving. Now he was stopped, all right, by this… _gift_ , from Bruce.  Clark had thought they were still on amicable terms.  He had no reason to suspect betrayal.  On the other hand, he knew his classics.  When you find a knife in your back, usually it was put there by a friend.

Weariness dragged him down, in spite of the fact that, by the sound, his son was tearing the house apart.  Clark’s last conscious thought was rueful.

_When Diana gets home, she’s going to be pissed._

* * *

 

Wonder Woman soared above corn and wheat, enjoying the sunshine.  She did not draw strength from it directly, not like Kal did; nevertheless, it felt amazing on her skin.  Whimsically, she thought of flying in the nude, feeling the sun on every inch of her body.  She harbored no illusions, though; while many things had changed in her decades away from Themyscira, the overly prurient nature of this world had not.  Someone would most assuredly mistake her simple, joyful exercise of freedom for some kind of lascivious display.  

Thoughts of Themyscira made her long for the ocean.  Some place that she and Kal might go, some island paradise like the one where she had learned to love the sunshine.  Just let them take some time for themselves, for a change.  Neither one of them, it seemed, ever stopped working.  Then again, perhaps it was too much to ask: that disaster, war, famine, pestilence and inhumanity take a few days off, so that Earth’s greatest heroes could, too.  Even things like today: a celebration, honoring Wonder Woman for averting a war, even that had become an obligation she would rather avoid.  Kal had _very_ quickly volunteered to stay home with the children, and the relief was palpable on his face when she acquiesced.  

He had never managed to reacquire the outgoing personality of his youth; the easy camaraderie he had shared with everyone he met.  When he had been the people’s favorite hero.  In some ways, he was that again, but she could tell he found it wearying.  Well, he claimed _now_ that it had all been an act even _then_ , but Diana thought there was a genuine difference, too.

She sighed.  It was ironic.  In her youth, she had rankled at the idea that Superman’s star was somehow considered to be ascendant over Wonder Woman’s.  Maybe that was true, back then; maybe it was just her competitive ego, pushing her to strive for higher greatness.  Whatever the case, these days she would like nothing better than to stand in Kal’s shadow; let him take the stage, deal with the media, try somehow to placate the screaming throngs.

Drawing to within sight of the farmhouse, she glanced at her “souvenir”, as Kal had taken to calling them.  It was a memorial sculpture, a beautiful crystal rendering clearly inspired by the Winged Victory of Samothrace.  The fifty foot original, of identical design now graced the monument to peace where she had spent her morning, listening to speeches.  This scaled-down version had been pressed into her hands by the sculptor, an elderly Greek man who had wept with joy when she lay her hands on his face and blessed him.  

She frowned at the piece as she alighted.  It was beautiful without question, but truly it did not belong in a Kansas farmhouse.  She thought about where it might not look out of place.

_Perhaps the Fortress.  It would fit in perfectly, everything is crystal there…_

She walked in the kitchen door, and saw Kal.

* * *

 

Clark was groggy.  _No, son, don’t try to move me, just take the rock outside._

“I could not _find_ the cursed rock!  Are Jon and Lara home?  Damn you, Kal, _WAKE UP!”_

Clark felt his hair ruffled by the force of that shout.  He opened his eyes, smiling as he was greeted with his favorite sight in all the universe.  “Hello, gorgeous.”

Diana laughed and cried at the same time.  She kissed her husband once, quickly and with terrible ferocity.  It ended before either of them were ready.  “Where was it?” she asked breathlessly.  “The Kryptonite? I could not see it, so I had to get you out of there.  Kal, _tell me our children are safe!”_

Clark blinked in confusion.  “They’re fine, last I... Bruce—”  He looked around, still not completely alert.  He was still so tired.  He realized they were five hundred feet above the farmhouse, his wife holding him aloft.  “What are we doing—?”

Diana cut him off with a growl, squinting at his chest and neck.  “Your skin is not clearing!  What is wrong?  Did you ingest it, somehow?”  She shook her head, angry at herself for wasting time.  She supported her husband with one arm, slamming her other palm against the side of her ear.  “Justice League, this is Wonder Woman, I have a code Red situation!  Superman is in critical condition, we need immediate teleport to—“

Clark, rousing at last to his circumstances, lay a hand on her arm, interrupting her.  He tapped his own earpiece.  “Ah, hello everyone.  This is Superman.  Belay that order, please.  I’m okay; the situation is under control.  Will update in 5.  Out.”

Diana looked at him, eyes round with shock.  “What do you mean, under control?  You stand at the brink of death and you tell them it is _under control?”_

“Honey.  I’m—”  Clark snorted lightly, then reached up and twined his fingers into the silky blackness of his wife’s hair.  He pulled her down to him and kissed her, hard.  She made one sound of protest, muffled by his lips and soon changing into a soft moan.

_Show beats tell_ , Pa Kent always used to say.

Minutes later, they parted from the kiss.  Clark had extricated himself from his wife’s grip and now they floated upright, face to face.  For a long moment, they said nothing, watching one another’s eyes.

Eventually, Diana glanced down to Kal’s chest, still glowing softly, then back up to his face.  She frowned in confusion.  He was clearly well; no one could kiss like _that_ without being altogether hale and hearty.  “How—?” The question broke off when he smiled at her.  At that moment, if only briefly, it ceased to matter _how_ he was intact: she merely accepted that he was.  He was a man who had inspired her every day of her adult life, competitive fires notwithstanding.  On occasion, he pushed her patience to its limits, yes, but she could not imagine a universe in which she failed to believe in him.  She crushed her face to his chest, relief flooding every cell of her body.

* * *

 

As quickly as he could accurately do so, Clark explained what had actually been going on.

_“You let your son believe you were dying???”_

“No!” Clark said hurriedly.  Apparently, their tender reunion was done; she really did kind of look like she was about to kick his ass.  “Jon knew it was a drill!  I told him that we were going to pretend, that I wouldn’t really be hurt, but I wanted him to, you know, be ready.  To think about what he would do, if something like that ever really did happen.”

“Kal,”  Diana stopped, took a deep breath, and tried very hard to modulate her tone.  “Kryptonite is very frightening.”  She barked out a laugh that was still not 100% steady.  What a colossal, inadequate understatement, but she could do no better, not at the moment.  “I, of all people know the truth of this.  Maybe it can hurt you, but it _terrifies_ me.  How did you and Jon decide on _that_ scenario?  To pretend you were dying from Kryptonite poisoning?  Would it not have been better to… pretend you had cut your finger?  Or something else?  _Anything_ else?”

“Well…” Clark had to hurry up because during that little speech, he could tell she was working her way back around to that ass-kicking look again. “He didn’t know ahead of time exactly what the bad situation would be.  _Pretend_ bad situation,” he emphasized, hurriedly.  “I wanted him to, you know, assess what to do…” he trailed off, because his wife looked like steam was about to start rolling out her ears any second.

“You wanted.  Your _three-year-old son_.  To _triage_ you.  In the _kitchen_.”  She shook her head.  “Of all the insane, hare-brained, ridiculous nonsense… “

“Bruce thought it would—” _Shit_.  Clark zipped his mouth shut, but it was far too late for that.

Diana took another deep breath, in a day that was already too full of them.  “Okay,” she sighed out the word, “I am going to let you— _partially_ —off the hook, because Bruce was involved.  Athena knows, you two idiots could set out to play horseshoes and wind up knocking the moon out of its orbit.  I will settle things with him, later.  As for you…no, I am _serious_ Kal, we are not done talking about this—“

Clark had started to pull her closer.  He was putting everything he had into his very best, 100% grade-A puppy-dog face.

She turned from it, shutting her eyes.  She pushed back against him, one hand on his shoulder, one on the underside of his chin.  “No, _no_ , Kal I am still mad at you, and that idiot friend of yours…”

“Sweetheart.”  He stopped pulling her in.

She kept the tension in her arms.  “What?” she bit out.  Waiting to see which way it would go.

“I love you.”

Diana laughed harshly.  Then, she burst out crying.  “I love you too, you ass!”  She collapsed against his chest, purging with her tears the fear and worry, the panic-inducing collapse of the most important thing in her universe.  “I thought I was losing you!”

“I know, honey.  I’m so sorry.”  Clark let her be, for a moment.  He reached up and tapped his JLA communicator again.  “This is Superman, to all points.  The situation here is resolved.  All personnel,” he flicked a glance back down at the house, “accounted for.  Have a nice day.”  Diana was beginning to calm down; he trailed his fingers up and down her back, lightly scratching through the fabric of her suit.

“Mmm,” she said, after a minute.  “You are good at that.”

Clark grinned.  “Technique is everything, sweetheart.”

Diana sniffed.  Then, she looked back at his chest.  “What is this on you, anyway?”

“Ah,” said Clark, embarrassed.  “It’s actually made with rum, mixed with some other stuff.”

“Oh, Hera give me strength.”  Diana raised her eyes heavenwards.

Clark grinned.  He knew she could see it.

After a moment, Diana chuckled, as much from exhaustion as anything else.  Then, she looked down at his exposed chest again.  “Rum, is it?  Just like the beach.”

She got a twinkle in her eye.

Clark actually failed to notice this.  Thinking he was just about out of the woods, he was gazing back down towards the house again.  _Is that what I think it is—_

He said absently, “Also, something called ’Nitro’, which I guess is some kind of highly caffeinated beverage.”  He snorted.  “Most folks today wouldn’t even know an internal combustion engine if they saw one, much less have a clue about nitrous ox—ah! ha! oh!  Hey, stop that!”

Diana had darted her head forward and licked him several times, across his chest and the base of his throat.  Clark found it almost unbearably ticklish.  “What in the world are you d—ah, mmm, oh, o-okay now cut that out!”

They were both hovering under their own power, so he dropped a few inches of altitude and hugged her tight against him, putting her head about at the hollow of his throat.  “That’s…whew, Diana, I need a little warning, next time.  And maybe…I mean, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon!  On a Thursday!”

She grinned up at him.  “Your objections are nearly as adorable as they are irrelevant.  I note that _you_ did not give _me_ any kind of advanced warning, making me believe you were _dying_.”

Clark grimaced.  “I really am sorry about that, honey.  I thought you’d be gone longer.”

Diana pouted.  “Why can’t you just look at naked girls on the net, like any other horny old man?”

Clark’s eyes bugged out.  “ _Diana!”_ he whispered, horrified.

She giggled.  “You are such a prude, Kal.”  Since she couldn’t get to his chest any more, she settled for licking the fake Kryptonite from his neck.  “Hmm, I like this concoction on you.”

Clark laughed nervously.  “Um, maybe we should get back inside the house if you want to, um, ah, you know…”

“I am intoxicated, and not responsible for my actions,” said Diana primly.  She went back to her licking.

Clark would have guffawed at that, under other circumstances.  At present, he was busy scanning far and wide, in every direction.  He debated staying up, giving them the chance to do something they hadn’t done midair in quite a while.  Ultimately, he decided it was too risky.  Jon’s vision was easily sharp enough to make them out, if he just so happened to look up in the middle of whatever he—

_Damn it.  Jon’s still down there, tearing around.  Probably got the whole house in a shambles by now_.

Quickly (though not so quickly as to dissuade his wife from helping him “clean up”), Clark began to lower their altitude.  He tried desperately tried to think of a way of keeping her in this frame of mind.  It had been quite a while since they’d really had any alone time together…

He saw the house.

There was a large hole in the roof, over the kitchen.

_I am so dead.  I really didn’t think Jon could throw that hard—_

“The hole is my fault, Kal.”

“ _Yours?”_ he choked out.

“Yes, I… wanted to get you out of the house, quickly.”

Clark made an exasperated sound.  “You couldn’t have just destroyed one _door?_   It had to be the whole _roof?”_

She was still nuzzled against his neck, but her hand reached down and smacked him—not gently—on the ass.  It made a sound like a rifle shot.  “That is what you get, mister, for coming up with such an asinine _drill_ for your son.”

Clark sighed, lowering them through the same hole in the roof that Diana had made during her exit.

_It’s certainly big enough.  She really blasted right the hell out of here_.

He touched down, and though the goddess in his arms had begun to softly kiss and lick his neck again, Clark knew he was doomed.

The entire downstairs was wrecked.  _This_ couldn’t have been the result of his wife’s panicked exit.

_This_ was how his son looked for something.  Furniture overturned, belongings strewn everywhere; it looked as though a tornado had hit the place.  As Clark touched down, he glared daggers at Bruce.  The Dark Knight had been sequestered in the den with little Lara for the drill, monitoring things and writing up his evaluation.  He’d kept the lights down, to encourage the baby to sleep through the ruckus.

Bruce was quaking with silent laughter.  His entire frame shook, exoskeleton making quiet noises as the servos worked to keep him upright.  Tears streamed down Bruce’s face as he laughed.

Inwardly, Clark sighed.  _I do not want to do this, but—_ He squeezed Diana’s upper arm, to get her attention.  She was focused on her ministrations, and not inclined to desist.  Clark bent his head, kissed her hair, and whispered, “Sweetheart.  We’re home.”

She looked up at him and grinned, silly with relief and happiness.  Clark’s return smile was somewhat pained.

Finally, Diana took note of her surroundings.  She rotated in an arc, eyes widening.  In a voice that was too shocked to be angry—yet—she asked, “What in the name of Hades happened to the _house?”_

Clark sighed, looking at his son.  “I think we prepared for the wrong disaster, buddy.”

Jon, decked out in his lead-lined suit, had removed the helmet and tucked it under one arm.  He _harrumphed_ at his parents with disdain.

“ _Mommy_ ,” he said, exasperated, “you’re doing it wrong!  You can’t lick off Kip-tonight!  Right, Uncle Bruce?”

“Right you are, my boy,” came Bruce Wayne’s rasping voice.  “Take a note, Princess.”

He turned from Diana—who would have incinerated him on the spot if she had possessed Clark’s heat vision—back to Jon.  “High five!”  He held his hand up.

“High five!” yelled Jon.  He leaped thirty inches in the air, to smack Bruce’s palm.  Jon loved high fives.

“Pie fi!” hollered Lara, who had just woken up.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I cannot think of the Kent Farmhouse without seeing the one from “Smallville” the TV show, so that is the one I’ve put Kal and Diana in here. That version has a second floor but I believe it did not cover the kitchen. Hence, when Diana blasted off in a hurry it wasn’t like she was also taking out part of the second floor, just the roof over the kitchen itself.  
> 2\. The drink Clark is wearing is called a "Green Scorpion". In real life, it requires a black light, and I don't suppose it would stick to one's chest for very long. I suppose you could thicken it with some simple syrup...  
> 3\. There is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but intentional reference to Young Justice up there, somewhere. If you identified it the first time through, then your bonus points are in the mail.  
> 4\. Obviously, Clark does not actually have to be vulnerable to Kryptonite in order for these events to transpire, but I couldn’t well say that in the before-story notes, now could I? Plot, my boy! (As Uncle Bruce would say.)  
> 5\. I apologize for my ignorance of when it is that children do things like speak correctly.  
> 6\. Personal note: one of the things that makes me smile the most about this setup is the idea that Clark and Bruce would get up to all kinds of zany antics in their golden years, like a couple of 10-year-old boys.


End file.
